


Male Reader X Female SCP Guards

by CampGreen



Category: SCP - Containment Breach, SCP Foundation
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, Multi, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: My forth SCP smutfic, although it's less of an SCP story and more of a prison story using SCP as a platform. This is a pretty grimdark one, I promise to make something a little more frothy next time. Maybe. The Guards are inspired by Undertow Games' SCP - Containment Breach.





	1. Pat-Down

You know the drill by now. Mope around in your closet-sized holding cell, choke down whatever tasteless slop they slide under the door, and try not to die on the occasion you're plucked and used as a lab rat in an experiment starring some paranormal abomination. You had always heard prison was tough but this wasn't what you were expecting. Being used as fodder for statues that shit blood one minute and snap your neck the next, and you didn't even commit a crime! Most of your peers, the "D-Class Personnel", they're called, are society's scum who deserve this fate. Like their own personal hell. But you, you were just some poor bastard who got unlucky when the SCP Foundation was running low on idiots to sacrifice. 

Within one of the innumerable hours of brooding upon your bed, bored out of your mind, you hear muffled footsteps coming from the other side of your cell's one and only entrance and exit. You assume it's just some personnel passing, but sure enough the 6'8" sheet of metal slides open to reveal a couple of security guards. Guess it's that time again. Maybe this time you'll die, that'd be a treat. They look identical to all of the other guards, like riot cops. Black and white attires sculpted from scraps from both the military and law enforcement uniforms. Their utility belts are adorned with all sorts of goodies. Battle rifles, handguns, tasers, batons, handcuffs. Charcoal ski-masks and yellow-tinted helmet visors obscure their faces, which matches perfectly with the soulless, clinical inhumanity of the rest of your environment. The Foundation's got their fashion sense down, that's for sure. These officers look a bit shorter and shaplier than the ones you've been manhandled by before, maybe they're women?

 _"You 3960?"_ One of them confirms your suspicions by speaking in a voice that's definitely feminine, albeit so gruff it's deeper than yours.

You get out of bed to brandish the code on your chest. _"Yes, ma'am."_

_"Hands on the wall."_

You do what you're told. That's odd, you've been here for weeks and they're just now doing a pat-down? Maybe they're just bored and need something to do.

_"Spread your legs."_

You again follow her orders and a slick, black nightstick is drawn around your body, like she's tracing your outline. She unzips your orange shirt and pulls your slacks and underwear down to your knees. She's starting to get really thorough... She uses her hands to mold the now exposed skin on your body. Your penis begins to disobediently cramp so you instinctively lock your knees in an attempt to hide it.

 _"You have to piss or something, worm?"_ she barks like a drill sergeant. _"I said spread your legs."_

_"Sorry! S-Sorry..."_

You reluctantly get back into your original pose, which basically puts an impossible-to-miss spotlight on your erection as you're rigorously groped. Your skin heats up to a cherry tinge and your pores begin to trickle with sweat.

_"Did someone turn the heater on, or are you such an out-of-shape loser that a fucking pat-down takes the breath out of you?"_

_"It's n-n-nothing!"_

_"N-N-N-N- Get the dick out of your throat, worm. Or will I have to take it out for you? What do you think, North,"_ she asks her partner, whose been watching in amusement the whole time. _"Should we help this piece of shit clean himself out?"_

_"What about the other girls, we aren't gonna hog him, are we?"_

_"I just want the first taste, is all. It'll be our little secret, isn't that right, 3960?"_

You respond with a yelp when her baton slaps up against your ass, painting a bloody streak across it like the crack of a bullwhip. Batons might just be plastic sticks, but they truly are instruments of pain. It's possible to knock a man's eyes out of his sockets with one powerful enough hit from one. With one spank, your buttocks are permanently scarred. Suddenly, you're on the ground, muscles twitching and immobile. It feels like you were just struck by a lightning bolt but you don't remember a thing. Two prongs are ripped from your belly as they hang from the coiled strings of that taser you were eyeing earlier. Officer North shuts the door behind her while her partner plants the soles of her boots atop your chest to almost crush your rib-cage, standing on her tip-toes to reach the security camera that's been stalking you all month. She puts a cap over its eye to blind it. Apparently they want their privacy. North tosses you onto the bed by your hair. 

You're bent over the sheeted mattress and a palm firmly masks your mouth right as a scream is ripped from it, thanks to a hard plastic cylinder being rammed in between your butt-cheeks. About half of the foot-long nightstick barely manages to fill up your rectum and painfully light it aflame. Fat tears boil in your eyes as you're sodomized and you shriek from underneath the five fingers pressing against the bottom half of your face. You thought these kevlar freaks were just cold and calculating robots. You guess a few sadists wiggled their way into security. Or maybe the Stanford prison experiment is at play. After your insides are tenderized by the club, it's ripped out from your anus and you're again flung to the ground onto your back. Getting on her knees, the guard holds the baton by its two ends and presses its base down on your neck, squeezing the breath right out of your throat like the press of some factory machine. You wheeze and squirm your heels as the connection between your brain and your lungs are slowly cut like a phone line. The red tint in your pigment cools down to an icy blue, and you pass out in the midst of your helpless struggle against her overwhelming strength. 


	2. Shower Rape

You flicker in and out of consciousness as you're dragged down the hallways of the facility. Your mind gulps and finally peeks out of the sea of enforced slumber. Metal strangles your wrists - handcuffs. Your uniform is absent, reducing you to nothing but your briefs and so you can really feel the freezing rusty pole your back rests against and what your hands are chained to, pinning you up and forcing you into a slumped stand. You're in the shower room. You've only been to this place one other time in your stay at the Foundation. Cleaning their guinea pigs isn't high on their priority list, but it's there nonetheless. Whilst your backbone is stung by the chill of the pole, your soles are stung by the chill of the tiles from below. Better get used to the cold. As your vision clears and you pick your head up, you jump at five shadows encircling you. It's the pair of guards from before, with three more friends tagging along for the fun. You can't tell any of them apart. The only feature that stops them from seeming like clones is a variation in heights and voices.

 _"Aw, he's up?"_ a blurry voice asks with a disappointed sneer. _"I was just about to wake him myself."_

 _"W-What's going on?"_ you groan. 

_"Just a few coworkers passing around a stress toy."_

_"The experiments might've been bad, worm,"_ another of the five guards speaks to you, _"but we're gonna make you grovel to God you never ended up in that cell. I almost feel bad for you just thinking about it."_

Oh God, they must think you're a piece of shit death row inmate like most other Class-D's. _"I-I'm not a criminal,"_ you fearfully explain. _"I swear to God! Y-You can check my file!"_

_"Criminal? Of course you're not a criminal, why else do you think we picked you?"_

_"...what?"_

_"Criminals are filthy. I don't speak for everyone but I think we all prefer them clean, isn't that right, ladies?"_

Well, you couldn't have been more wrong. These officers aren't twisted vigilantes, they're sadists who get off to gang-raping anything innocent or pure that they can get their hands on.

 _"How much aggression you girls been building up?"_ the supposed leader of the pack asks as the rest begin cracking their necks and knuckles, sending another chill down your spine.

_"I donated my punching bag to the gym last week."_

_"I've been off the cigs for almost half a month."_

_"Me? I'm just feeling really fucking nasty today, so I get the first punch,"_ one of the last two slimily growls. 

_"Fair enough."_

She tightens her glove and makes it skintight against her hand, before clenching it into a fist and flying a haymaker across your face. The whiplash alone tortures your nervous system, while the punch itself garners so much pain you go numb in seconds. A hellish volley of thwacks from nightsticks are unchained upon your bare, tender stomach. Four batons joyfully pummel your torso, changing its creamy paleness to a mixture of thick, blackened purple bruises and red tears. One of the guards isn't attacking you, instead filming the whole thing with her cellphone as she circles around the gang-bang to get the best angle. You'd be tearfully begging them to stop or screaming for help but your body begins shutting down starting with its ability to think or speak. Now all your mind can do is hopelessly try to escape from the seething, aching pain infesting your every atom. 

The women finally relent, and one steps up to grab a handful of your hair and get real close up to your face. Pulling her helmet and mask up a few inches, she trails a heavy tongue up your cheek before planting it in your mouth, which is flooded with the metallic taste of your own blood. After a brief but intense french, she pulls out, and along with it, a string of red. Then she slams the back of your head into the pole it rested upon. Somehow, this gives you no unconsciousness to retreat into. Just another wave of ungodly suffering locked inside your skull like a caged animal. She gets on her knees and fishes your genitals out from the fly of your briefs. One hand hugging your shaft and the other cupping your balls, she starts giving you a decent handjob, albeit so rough your entire penis reddens like it's having a blush. All the while, the camerawoman captures every second of it like a crazed cultist of the paparazzi. Just to mock you, she holds the screen up to your face and shows you a sample of the snuff film they're making. 

_"We're gonna make you a star, 3960."_

You relive bits and pieces of the session of torment, this time in third person. Enduring it was bad enough, now you're being forced to witness it from another perspective. You see the face your torturers have been loving every second of, a face of twisted terror and agony. It makes you sick to your stomach, yet after she's done showing it to you, she undoes her pants and starts vigorously fingering herself as she ogles the screen of her phone. Never would you figure you'd be so terrified and disgusted by a woman fondling herself right in front of you.

 _"Jesus Christ, Ashford,"_ one of the other guards, cringing at the sight of her coworker masturbating at her shoulder, sighs. _"You haven't even finished filming the thing yet and you're already flicking your clit to it?"_

For the first time in forever, semblances of pleasure actually start crystalizing in your groin. You finally have something to look forward to in this hellish mess of torture - an orgasm. But right before the flood can be unleashed, the hand around your shaft fiercely tightens similar to a boa constrictor crushing its prey. The carpet of ecstasy is instantly ripped out from under you and seamlessly replaced with, you guessed it, more splitting agony to rack yourself with. Her iron grip makes a clot in your penis and traps your cumshot in it before it can escape, so it's left to boil and bubble in your balls like an overcooked meal. 

_"I don't remember giving you permission to finish, worm. You're our slave, our toy built to obey every word we say. You don't even have a name, just a barcode like something on the shelf of a supermarket. And do you know what happens to defects? We scrap them."_


	3. Execution

Another guard steps up, slides a Colt Python out from her holster, and slips the barrel in between your lips, stuffing your mouth with a cylinder of metal. If it were one more centimeter deep, your gag reflex would kick in. A fear worse than any of the experiments could ever inflict upon you melts into your synapses, amplified when her thumb slams down on the hammer to shock your body with a revolver cock that sounds like a robot's bones breaking. If it weren't for the fact your urethra is clogged with a cum backup, you would undoubtedly piss yourself. 

_".357, aimed right at your pharynx,"_ the officer on her knees taunts.

 _"These things can kill full-grown grizzly bears,"_ another interjects, _"so what hope does the back of your throat have?"_

Then the one with a gun in your mouth finishes the group fearmongering, as your tears run down her revolver's chamber. _"Hell, I could squeeze one finger and your head wouldn't exist anymore. It'd be so easy I might just do it on complete accident."_

After relishing in your terror, she rips the revolver out of your mouth and the blue-balling process repeats for what feels like an eternity. The four officers take turns getting on their knees to amorously suck and flick away at your cock right before your undisciplined shudders signal a climax over the horizon. Then they choke your penis and rip any satisfaction away from you in an act of shameless cruelty. The muscles in your genitalia begin to twist and ache like a demonic hurricane. The human body isn't meant to be treated like this. Your tissue is starting to get matted from all of these aborted discharges. The knot in your testicles caused by this is probably the worst pain a man could ever endure. It's like a suicide headache smuggled into your scrotum. 

You get lightheaded from the torture but right before you can pass out, they finally throw you a bone and ease your monstrous case of blue-balls by allowing the cumshot to pass, as if they're gate keepers in a good mood. It's already so powerful it would bring any and every man to his knees, but coupled with being right off the heels of hellacious ill-treatment, it feels like Heaven dipped down onto you for a half minute. Since this is technically dozens of cumshots forcefully lumped together into one, your balls are completely unloaded. Not a single cell of sperm remains inside of you after you're finished. The five women watch in awe as your dick violently twitches out massive puddles worth of semen onto the tiled floor. In your plastered glance at what you created, you can guess it could fill up about half a carton of milk if transferred to a container. You're almost proud of yourself, though it's probably just your mind desperately scavenging around for anything positive in this hopeless situation. 

_"Someone enjoyed themselves, huh? You make me sick,"_ an officer spits in an obligatory insult.

Your dick shrivels back into its useless little self. They flick the shower-heads on and unlock your handcuffs, so you slump to the ground right as a sharp drizzle rains down from above. The blood pouring from the dozens of rips in your skin are washed down the drain along with the carpet-sized puddle of baby batter. With the single twist of a knob, all evidence evaporates like a blaze under a sprinkler system. The shower is turned off and they hold you down as they force you back into your prisoner pajamas to mask the countless welts spotted about your skin. You're seized by the collar, ripped to your feet, and have your handcuffs snapped right back on.

The barrel of a rifle nudges your side, and you're escorted out of the shower room by a squad of thugs in police uniforms. In your long walk of shame through the facility and back to your cell, you pass remiss men and women in labcoats and technician uniforms buzzing around. Blissfully unaware that you were brutalized by their own colleagues just minutes ago, for no other reason than for kicks. You hope they're unaware, at least. Worst case scenario: they know and just don't care. Your legs can barely support the broken spirit they were made to hold up. You painfully stumble and stagger like a zombie in your walk, and you begin nearing your cell block. But suddenly, a black burlap sack snatches your head. You thrash and struggle and you're dragged into some room, but the sack is being so pulled so tight your screams are reduced to mere muffles. You're tossed against a wall, sight completely stripped away from you.

_"We appreciate the service, worm, but now you're a loose end."_

_"What?!"_ you squeak from beneath the sack. _"I-I-I won't talk, I swear!"_

_"Won't talk? More like can't talk, funny to hear you still haven't got that dick out of your throat. READY!"_

A choir of metallic cocks and racks fill the room. Oh, fuck no... Jesus fucking Christ, no, God, they're going to execute you! A monsoon of fight-or-flight, instinctual thoughts rage from inside your head. Your heart starts pounding four times a second and your legs are soon soaked in urine as they violently quiver, from crotch to ankles.

_"AIM!"_

You can hear shotguns and carbines shifting as their butts are mounted onto shoulders. You can feel four crosshairs scald through the sack shrouding your head. This is how you're going to die. Abducted off the streets, locked in solitary confinement, used as a human guinea pig, passed around as the security's boy toy, and tossed aside like trash after outliving your use.

**_"FIRE!" ___**

You expect to hear a barrage of gunfire tearing through your clothes. But you instead hear an eruption of perverted laughter. 

_"He actually fucking pissed himself!"_ you can discern from the cruel echos of sadistic glee swirling around you like ghosts.

_"You think we care if you talk? Knock yourself out. You're nothing but garbage, you could whine the truth at the top of your lungs all day, but no one would listen."_

It was just a mock execution. One last slice of torture before locking you back up to rot away. You are the opposite of relieved. Those few seconds of mind-rending terror have permanently twisted your mind. They've broken you. Maybe you could've recovered after the gang-rape, but this was the stick that broke the camel's back. You're dragged to your holding cell and locked right back up, back to square one. You lay on the floor like a rag-doll. After all, how could such a shattered mind pilot a body? You're nothing. The only action you could ever have the passion to carry out anymore is suicide. There's no scraps laying around to fashion into a shank and slit your wrists with. The ceiling is completely blank, nothing to help the sheets hang yourself with. Not enough water in the toilet to drown yourself with. This is your life now. 

As you cower in the fetal position, a small black rectangle is slid under the door, instead of the usual tray of stale spinach and beans. It's a disposable cellphone. After giving it a fearful stare like a wild animal scared to approach something unfamiliar, you crawl over to it and peek into its contents. The single thing accessible in the otherwise locked-down digital world is a video file. It's the security team's magnum opus, something you had a peek at whilst it was in the makings. 15 minutes worth of _you_ getting decimated in a prison shower in every conceivable way. The one and only thing you have to distract yourself with from the living hell you've been choked by is an archived example of your own rape, so you can relive it. Over, and over, and over, and over again...

At least now you'll never get bored again.  



End file.
